Why I Won't Worship Claire Underwood

Claire Underwood is my idol. She is also the worst thing to have ever happened to me. If you ask my family what I'm like, they might offer up phrases such as "absentminded," "free spirit," or, as my sister recently called me in her wedding speech, a "downtown fashionista." Claire Underwood is none of these things.

Ever since I got fired from my first job on my 22nd birthday for being a "space cadet," it's been my mission in life to give off a professional air. Any time someone at work calls me "together" or "capable," it slowly chips away at the lingering insecurity left over from that soul-crushing descriptor. And yet, whenever Claire Underwood confidently saunters on screen wearing a form-fitting sheath dress with an exposed zipper, she topples my own personal house of cards.

I know Claire is fiction—perhaps a composite of all of the power women the House of Cards executives have ever met or read about—but to me, she is all too real. My mom served nine terms in the United States Congress. She was the ranking Democrat on the Intelligence Committee. She was a Blue Dog. She was, and still is, an expert on all things pertaining to national security. Some might say that I, in turn, am an expert on all things pertaining to Brenda and Brandon Walsh. What started as a childish aversion to my parent's profession evolved into a debilitating ignorance on topics of politics and international relations.

I remember watching my mom get ready for work when I was a little girl. Before slipping on a fitted Armani blazer and its matching pencil skirt, she'd always step into her heels. Even then I knew how glamorous that was. Later in life, when my dad passed away, my mom adopted an edgier style—more leather, higher heels, Marant in lieu of Armani. I once asked her if the new look was a kind of armor. "That's exactly what it is," she said.

Claire Underwood has her own sartorial armor, of course. According to show costume designer, Tom Broecker, Claire has carefully cultivated a collection Narciso Rodriguez and Ralph Lauren dresses, Theory shirts, and Burberry coats. And she knows how to make her pieces work for her. In an integral moment, halfway through season two, she is trying to figure out what to wear to an on-camera interview meant to defuse a PR crisis. When she pulls out a ¾ sleeve shift dress with an asymmetrical neckline, I couldn't help but wail, "But she just wore that!" I couldn't believe that my warrior was gonna Kate Middleton that tasteful, investment piece. And then I understood her instinct: For someone like Claire, repeating an outfit is a subtle yet symbolic gesture.

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Any glimmer of commonality, of a real person inside of the tough exterior, helps to humanize Claire. Whereas we don't want to see Frank stumble—Can you even imagine him slumping up against the hallowed walls of the White House and pressing a Xanax to his tongue?—it's nice to know that Claire can't quite keep up with her husband's pace (even if only on the rowing machine). When she breaks down on the stairwell at the end of episode 12, we are mesmerized. Just as we were when it's revealed that she used to have a Southern twang. For a moment we can almost see the pre-media training Claire. We picture her in mom jeans and chenille, her hair long and permed, with perhaps an extra 10-15 pounds on her frame. And then, just like that, she snaps out of it. She hoists herself back up onto her suede Louboutins and hauls her tasteful suitcase up the stairs. "What an ice queen," my husband muttered under his breath. Had Frank done the same—or even Don Draper or Walter White—he might have been impressed. But when Claire shook off her vulnerability, she was reduced to a Disney-esque character in his mind. Her strength conjured up an image of the spell casting, poison apple-doling, frigid bitch. I doubt anyone's ever called Frank Underwood an ice king. Because no matter how cartoonish or theatrical our antihero gets, we don't require accountability from him. It's just more fun when he's bad.

Yes, for all of her calculatedness, and for all of her armor—be it her tasteful wardrobe or that impossibly chic hair—Claire is human. She drinks too much, indulges in cigarettes, and uses her sensuality to seduce everyone around her. She lives such a protected life—secret service and death threats have limited almost all of her interaction with the outside world—that she continually mistakes deference for devotion. Whether her target is slick photographer Adam Galloway or meek agent Edward Meechum, Claire employs the same schoolgirl tactics of seduction—plying them with liquor when they can't refuse or offering up a lingering gaze. It always works, but of course it does: She is a beautiful woman with a beautiful body and she's married to one of the most powerful men in the world. I mean, you don't have to be a hacker with a martyr complex (and a guinea pig named Cashew) to figure that one out. But as we see in the season two finale, she is nothing more than a well dressed plus-one. For all of her lobbying and professional partnering, she has no voice, no impact, and no power without Frank. While she may have been the Queen on the chessboard in season one, majority whip Jackie Sharp has usurped her public authority; Claire is simply a first lady—an unemployed one at that.

This season has served up some cold hard truth about the perceived role of women in politics: If they get too close to the truth, they get pushed in front of a train; if they threaten the oligarchy, they get exiled to crappy apartment complexes with old-school ice trays; if they fight tooth and nail for what they want, they are "ice queens," or in Jackie's case, self-righteous pawns.

In the finale, when I see Claire with her own exposed zipper pushed up against the hallowed walls of the White House, I can't help but hope that she put on her heels first. She's gonna need all the armor she can get.